But the girl had not waited for his instructions, to push past him into the bedroom. Dr. Grafton stood looking down at the little figure outlined by the bed-clothes. He turned as Barbara came in, and the girl received no encouragement from his face. When he spoke, however, it was reassuringly. “Come in, Barbara; you can’t disturb him now. He’s had some medicine, and he won’t rouse for some time. I want to talk with you.”
“Is he dangerously sick?”
“We can’t tell just how sick he is, but we won’t think about danger yet. His fever is pretty high. Has he complained about not feeling well lately?”
“Not until this morning, and then not much. David never does really complain. He wanted to stay away from school, though.”
“He ought never to have gone,” said her father.
Barbara winced as though she had been struck. “That was my fault, father; I told him that I thought he had better go.”
Dr. Grafton did not seem to hear. “I’ve been trying to think what is the best thing for us to do. I don’t dare to let your mother know yet. I’ve sent for a nurse for the boy, but it’s going to make extra care for you to have sickness in the house. I don’t know just what we’ll do with the children; we must try to find some haven for Cecilia and the Kid. You and Jack and I must hold the fort. Do you think we can manage it? It may be a long siege.”
Barbara’s eyes overflowed, but her voice was steady as she answered her father with a slang phrase that seemed, somehow, to carry more assurance with it than college English would have done,—“Sure thing!”
“That’s all, then. The nurse will be here in twenty minutes. Try to keep the children still when they get home from school. I know that I can depend on you to keep things running, downstairs.”